


On Widowmaker Road

by Vulgarweed



Category: Lost Souls - Brite
Genre: Appalachian Folklore, Horror, M/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-26
Updated: 2010-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-08 08:34:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mountains have their legends and some of them are true. Narrowly averted death = resurgence of life force in longed-for ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Widowmaker Road

It was a cockamamie idea, but once he had it Steve couldn't let it go. Those rolling green-blue shapes had ruled his mind too long, dreaming in their ancient mists, and he hated to admit it, Ghost among them, drifting through the trees like some Indian spirit, like the white deer he'd glimpsed once. Ghost fit well enough in Missing Mile. But Steve had to see how he'd look amid the mountains from whence he'd come.

But perhaps doing it on Halloween had been ill-advised. But Steve really couldn't bear the thought of another goddamn Sacred Yew costume party, and besides, he would never admit it but he was scared of the mountains, and if he was going to be scared, he was going to be good and scared.

The T-Bird arched its confident way along a road it had no right to be confident of—narrower than any of the dirt roads in the Piedmont; rocky, unmarked, and with a drop to one side Steve was glad he couldn't see in the dark. Occasionally a leaning shack would shine its bare face out of a holler set back from the road, where a cold stream aimed for the culverts and the wind battered at the car and sent rains of pelting leaves across the windshield. There weren't any jack-o-lanterns. Ghost had told him a lot of the mountain people didn't celebrate Halloween—they believed too much in the Devil and his allies, and they stayed inside and prayed. Or they went to their tiny, ancient clapboard churches. "That's a signs-following church," Ghost said, pointing to one that huddled beneath an ancient oak. "They take up serpents."

Steve imagined if Ghost dropped off again with that whiskey bottle between his legs, he might stroke it in his sleep as if it would rattle its tail and deliberate whether it should bite him. Ghost, it probably wouldn't bite. He, Steve, it surely would. Ghost, though, he didn't need a church to speak in tongues. The less Steve thought about that the better: tongues

"Gimme that," he said, reaching for the whiskey bottle and just brushing the crotch of Ghost's worn pants with his knuckles. Thought he could almost taste him in the deep swig, and just as he was banishing that thought, Ghost sat up straight. He pointed desperately to a fork in the road – "there, there, pull in, cut your lights!"

Steve spilled a little whiskey in his reaction, but didn't disobey that tone of voice. Ghost had gone unbelievably pale, and in the next moment the mountain shook. The truck that hurtled around the corner had no headlights and no engine sound, but plunged as inexorably as a jetliner crashing, taking up the center of the road and nearly clipping the T-Bird's rear bumper. Ghost pulled Steve hard against himr, and the semi went on straight although the road curved, and there was a nightmare of crashing and flame amid the trees.

"What the fuck?" Steve said, shaking. Ghost did not let him go. They were sprawled across the front seat of the T-Bird, whiskey drenching their laps.

"Not…people," Ghost whispered. "Not anymore. That truck's been doing that for years. Taken a lot of cars with it."

"God DAMN," Steve barked, trembling, his face pressed against the soft of white of Ghost's throat, and far too frightened to do anything but seize his half-formed opportunity, and kiss—with tongue, with teeth, with fever. He pulled at the collar of Ghost's thrift-shop shirt, tugged at his long fair hair and tried to overwhelm the soft mist of his mind with concreteness, hot blood, desire. He was almost shocked when Ghost arched beneath him with a soft assenting sound, growing louder, untucking Steve's paisley shirt from his black jeans and caressing his chest. The whiskey was probably all spilled and gone, but Steve drank from Ghost's mouth wildly, plunging his tongue in and out slowly and deeply, moaning raggedly in there as the long, soft hands got his cock free and played with it…oh GOD, he'd always thought Ghost was probably kind of asexual, but no, no, not now he wasn't. Steve returned the favor, wrenching at the drawstring of the loose hippie pants, finding downy hairs and eager flesh. He pushed Ghost down further and nudged his legs a bit apart so they could fit together better, writhing and grinding. Harder. Rougher. More rhythmically – there, like _that_, and there was that feel and sight he thought he'd never know: Ghost's lovely face thrown back in violent delight, creamy wetness between their bellies, speaking in tongues.

Steve thought if he left Ghost here, his friend would never age and never die. He would set down white roots in the forest like an Indian pipe. He would grow lichens like a rock face. He would laugh at spectral truckers and frightened prayers.

But he was not that unselfish.


End file.
